


Old Dogs

by CapMiller08



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise, Star Trek: Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Adventure, Arguing, Conflict Resolution, Enterprise, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Queer Themes, San Francisco Bay Area, Slow Burn, Starfleet, Starship Enterprise (Star Trek), Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, cursing, eventual gay, senior living
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapMiller08/pseuds/CapMiller08
Summary: Reeling from a revelation about Data, Jean-Luc appeals to Vice Admiral Janeway to give him a warp capable vessel to track down Bruce Maddox. How was he supposed to know that she’d assign him the Enterprise NX-01?Under the guise of transferring the vessel to a museum over Rigel X, Picard and a skeleton crew embark on a mission to investigate Bruce Maddox's last known location.Featuring a mix of OCs and characters from Picard and the larger canon. Set after the first episode of Star Trek: Picard. Includes spoilers for Star Trek: Picard and Star Trek: Nemesis.
Relationships: Jean-Luc Picard & Kathryn Janeway, Jean-Luc Picard & Original Female Character(s), Jean-Luc Picard & Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating with a new chapter every week. As a head's up, the first five chapters will be centered around gathering the crew and introducing some m/m OC gayness.

Vice Admiral Janeway did not like being on Earth. Not on days like today. She always felt restless after pouring through the fleet reports and the latest deployment rosters, envying the freedom those ships had. They had galaxies to explore and planets to orbit and nebulas to entangle themselves inside of. She envied the captains she was in charge of, wishing she were the one receiving the marching orders and not them.

Janeway didn’t have a view of space anymore. From her office at Starfleet Headquarters, the only thing she saw was the Golden Gate Bridge and the wide, blue mouth of the bay.

She missed them every day. Her crew. Her _Voyager._

She missed looking outside her ready room and seeing the rich plumage of clouds hovering over an alien landmass. She missed the array of stars that twinkled against the black, forming a patchwork of constellations that felt, to her—both foreign and enticing. She missed how gravity seemed to begin and end on the bridge. Her bridge.

She used to be an explorer. A captain. 

She used to think she was lost back then.

Janeway ran her hand through her grayed hair and sighed. She’d been in her office several hours too long. The day had been a blur in the way busy days always were. At the start of it, there’d been the meeting between the Klingon Science Initiative and the Vulcan Science Academy, which proved to be exactly as tense as expected; after, there’d been a three hour conference with an overwrought, impatient Ferengi delegation, who objected to a Federation presence on a dilithium-rich planet they were trying to exploit; in the afternoon, there’d been a somber, weighty meeting with the Xahean ambassador, who was investigating a murder of one of his people in South Boston.

She had one more meeting and then the day would be over. Or so she hoped. Janeway stood up from her desk and strode over to the replicator.

“Coffee, black,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

The door to her office chimed.

“Come in,” she urged.

Her coffee materialized just as the door to her office slid open. She grabbed the cup and turned to find him stepping into her office. Age had dented and bruised him, but then again, it had dented and bruised all of them; he seemed to be weathering it better than most. Seeing him standing there, Janeway was hesitant to even call him old.

Old summoned all the wrong images. Old evoked stooped, crooked bodies and missing teeth. It suggested weary, tired eyes. It implied wandering, tranquilized speech. Old was the last strained whimper before death.

Jean-Luc Picard was nowhere near death.

He stood upright, without the aid of a cane. His eyes were bright and alert. This man was not old in the way Janeway thought of old; he was still crackling with life, with energy.

“Kathryn,” he said, a warm smile unfurling on his face.

“Jean-Luc,” she said, returning a smile of her own. She indicated her replicator. “Can I get you a cup?”

He shook his head, the smile lessening, but only slightly. “Oh, I regret to tell you that my days of caffeine consumption are behind me.” He shook his head, regretful. “By my count, fourteen months behind me.”

“Not that you’re counting.”

“Not that I’m counting,” he echoed, that wry, stubborn smirk still visible.

“I mourn your loss,” she said. “Though the way I remember it, you were never much one for coffee.”

“I always found it too earthy,” he said, chuckling. 

“Well,” she said. “There was a time in my life where all I wanted were things to be a little more earthy,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. It was dark, with notes of blueberry and chocolate; just the way she liked it. She gestured to her desk. “Please. Sit.”

Janeway retreated back behind her desk and took a seat. Picard sat across from her, his gaze probing her office. She could tell he was eying the bust behind her, an old, rust-chewed Klingon sculpture. B’Elanna Torres had gotten it for her a few years back; ever since returning to the Alpha Quadrant almost twenty years ago, the woman’s interest and enthusiasm for Klingon art and history had increased tenfold.

“So Jean-Luc,” Janeway said. “What can I do for you?”

“A favor.”

Janeway took another sip, savoring the warmth in her throat. “Name it and I’ll see what I can do.”

Picard leaned forward, his gaze meeting hers. “I’m tracking down a man named Bruce Maddox. It’s my belief he’s using neurons from the late Data to create organic synthetic life. I owe it to someone important to find him and ask him some questions.”

Janeway hid her surprise. Of all the requests he could’ve lobbed at her, she hadn’t seen this one coming. Not by a long shot. “Bruce Maddox’s location is classified. Only authorized Federation personnel can be briefed on the intel you’re after,” she said, smiling in that knowing, smart-ass tenor that always used to get under Chakotay’s skin. “But you knew that.”

Picard didn’t say anything. A knowing, relaxed expression filled his face.

“Ah,” she said. “Hence the favor.”

The clock against the far wall ticked loudly, documenting each second that passed.

“I want to be reinstated,” he said, cutting to the chase. “All I ask is that you give me a warp capable ship and just enough crew to man it.”

“If you’re looking for Maddox, don’t you think a call to his office will suffice?” Janeway asked coyly.

“We both know it won’t,” Picard said. “Because we both know Starfleet has no clue where Maddox currently is. Reinstate me. For one mission. I’ll follow the bread crumbs you have and the few I’ve gathered. Do that and I’ll help you find him.”

She laughed. “Oh, just like that?”

“It’s urgent, Kathryn,” he said. Then, quieter, more cautiously: “The Romulans are involved.”

Alarm coursed through her. “And you can prove that?”

“No,” he said regretfully. “But I can tell you what I saw.”

Janeway sighed. “I’m gonna need more than your word,” she said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice.

“There was a time when all I needed was my word.”

Her face hardened. “That was before you went on the news and dragged our name through the shit, Jean-Luc,” she said.

“I regret the way I said that,” he said, shaking his head. “I do.”

“But not the position you took,” Janeway countered.

“No,” he said.

“I thought so,” she said, taking another sip.

“You disagree?” he asked. “You really don’t think we had a duty to help Romulus and Remus?”

The gentleness in his voice receded somewhat. In its place were hints of the heat and anger that had blown its way through the interview, effectively destroying it.

“Our fleet was stretched thin,” she stated bluntly. “Before we even sent a single ship over the neutral zone, we had fourteen members of the federation threatening to pull out, a Cardassian secessionist movement nipping our asses, and on top of all that, Borg activity on the border of—"

“We had no excuse,” Picard interjected.

Janeway’s mouth became a grim line. “We relocated who we could,” she said. “We did the best we could with what we had.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “I was on the frontlines of that relocation. You could’ve done more. Much more. We both know it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Janeway said, waving him off. “It wasn’t my call. Maybe if I had another pip on my uniform, it would’ve been. Or maybe, Jean-Luc,” she said, her gaze drilling into his, “if the Synthetics you helped activate hadn’t bombed Utopia Planitia and killed civilians—yeah, things could’ve been different.”

“And if the Federation had shown up for Romulus in they’d promised, there would have been even less death,” he replied softly. “And less bodies to bury.”

“A lot of what ifs. A lot of too little, too late,” Janeway said, glaring at him. “That does exactly fuck all for me, Jean-Luc.”

“Maybe back then,” he said. He shook his head, his voice hardening. “But not now.”

Janeway set her coffee on her table and stood up. She drifted to the window nearest her, where the sun was beginning its slow migration towards the horizon line. The blue from the sky was fading, becoming diffuse. “Bruce Maddox can’t bring back the dead,” she murmured.

“Maybe not, Admiral,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t create new life and make some of those deaths—mean something.”

Janeway turned away from the window, from the sun that was losing altitude but wasn’t quite setting. “We’ve both fought in enough battles—and buried enough crew—to know that’s bullshit,” she said. “You can’t make death mean something. Death is death. It’s always meaningless. If it wasn’t, we’d be talking to them about all the caffeine we’ve given up instead of seeing their faces at night,” she said, more harshly than she intended.

“Help me find Maddox and we can prevent any more deaths than necessary,” he said, his dark eyes softening. “Please.”

Janeway picked up a PADD from her desk, deliberating. “The Delta Quadrant would’ve liked you,” she said. “And if you were half as stubborn as you are now, hell—maybe you would’ve gotten them back in ten years, give or take.”

“If age has taught me anything, it’s that ten years isn’t so bad. It’s just a blink of an eye, really.” Picard stood up, rising slowly. “I need to know, Kathryn. Is that a yes?”

“It’s a reluctant yes,” Janeway said. “But you may not like what I have in mind. I can’t spare any vessels in the fleet right now. And honestly, if we’re gonna do this, it has to be off-book. Which means no ships with active registration numbers.”

Picard raised an eyebrow. “Which doesn’t give you many options.”

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t.” Janeway shrugged. “But maybe you’d be doing me a favor.”

“And how is that?”

“Because I have the perfect ship for you,” she said. “An old dog like yourself. One I’m supposed to be pulling from the Smithsonian and sending to the new museum over Rigel X.”

“Now I’m curious,” Picard said.

Janeway scrolled through the PADD, trying to hide her smirk. “You should be. You’re a fan of history and old fossils,” she said, handing the PADD over to him. “You might like this one.”

Picard took the PADD from her and started reading it. He chuckled. “Oh, an old NX model. How lovely.”

“Scroll down,” Janeway said. “Read the name.”

His eyes lit up, making him look younger than his ninety years.

“You’ve commanded two _Enterprises_ ,” Janeway said. “Tell me, Jean-Luc. What’s one more?”


	2. Chapter 2

The view from McKinley Station never grew old. From Picard’s view on the observation deck, he could see Earth stretched before him. For a moment, he was lost in the passage of clouds as they crept over the Pacific Ocean, their movement slow, tentative.

Below him was the oldest space-worthy ship to bare the name _Enterprise,_ its ancient warp nacelles gray and lifeless. Her hull, stained a light copper, seemed too brittle, as if a sneeze could crumple the hull. The ship was slumbering, tired. He wanted to let the old girl rest, to let her slowly die the way old, abandoned things do. But he needed to wake her up. She had a job they needed done.

Picard remembered all the times he’d seen the _Enterprise D_ within McKinley Station’s embrace, the forward docking struts extended over the saucer section in a way that felt almost tender, as though the station itself were protecting the massive ship. In a way, each time the _Enterprise_ shot back to Earth, McKinley Station had been protecting his vessel, nursing the wounds she’d accumulated, replacing the blood she’d lost. The _Enterprise_ , at least back then, had seemed invincible; however bruised and bloodied the ship got, she always seemed to limp away. The ship felt destined to always live another day. To endure where others could not.

Picard should’ve known better. Not everything gets to endure.

Or survive.

Picard still heard her screams as the fire consumed her body. He could still see the way smoke rose off her body, the way her face creased in pain as her flesh snapped and spat. The look of shock in her eyes as she realized, _oh, this is it._

Dahj.

A woman Picard believed was Data’s daughter.

And now, like her father, that woman was dead, swallowed by energy and heat.

The greatest legacy Data had passed onto his daughter wasn’t the miracle of a positronic neural network. It was the pain of having to bury someone without the body. The only thing you could put in the casket were memories, each one decaying, waning. If you were lucky, you’d see them in your sleep.

Some days Picard hated growing older.

He wondered what Zhaban would say if he heard Picard voice any of this. Back at his chateau in La Barre, the Romulan had always diffused Picard’s more serious lamentations with nothing more than a wry smirk and a quip. _Always with the drama_ , he’d say. _You should switch to ale. It makes you sleepy instead of sad._

But Picard always demurred. If the past few years at his family’s chateau had cultivated anything in him, it was a preference for a smokey, dark red. 

He felt movement behind him. He turned to find Dr. Jurati approaching him, a bright smile playing at her lips.

“Admiral,” she said, stepping up to the row of windows looking out on the _NX-01._ “Quite a view.”

“Please,” Picard said. “Call me Jean-Luc. And yes, the view really is something. Even at over two hundred years old, the ship is quite extraordinary.”

“Two hundred years,” Jurati repeated in a reverential whisper. “At what point does something like that become timeless?”

“The fact we’re still looking at her indicates you may already have an answer,” Picard said.

Jurati chuckled. “Fair enough.”

A moment of quiet wedged itself between them. They both wanted to talk, Picard knew, but neither person wanted to be the first to go.

Jurati went first anyway. “Not that I don’t enjoy the invitation to see such a beautiful sight,” she began. “But I gotta ask—if you wanted to meet, we didn’t have to stand above the Earth to do it.”

“No, perhaps not,” Picard replied. “But I’ve been known to be dramatic.” He turned to her. “Starfleet has agreed to reinstate me. My mission is to command a skeletal crew and transfer the _NX-01_ to a museum over Rigel X, where the new docent will oversee the ship’s residence in their collection.” 

Jurati paused, unsure of what to say. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order—”

“That’s the official story,” Picard continued. “The unofficial story is I’m taking her on an off-the-books mission to Cestus IV, the last known location of Bruce Maddox. A location I believe you’re familiar with.”

She couldn’t hide the surprise from her face. “Wait—what?” she asked. “I—yeah, I know the place. It was a satellite research lab funded by Daystrom. I went there a few times, but my primary deployment was at Okinawa.”

Jurati turned away from him, and let her attention drift to the _Enterprise._ As they watched, workers marched across her hull with laser torches, the sparks drifting away from them like fireflies. “Most of his stuff was black boxed, but I recovered a few of the ancillary things. Nothing of real value was recovered.”

“Well, we’re going to take another look.”

Jurati raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yes. And we have to move quickly. The station is in a decaying orbit around the planet,” Picard said. He indicated the _Enterprise_ through the windows. “And considering the Zhat Vash may be involved, not only must we move quickly—we have to move delicately.”

Jurati laughed; it was an astonished, disbelieving sound. “They gave you… _that,”_ she said. “A two hundred year old starship.”

“They did,” Picard said, nodding, as though he received ancient Federation vessels regularly. 

“Adm—sorry, Jean-Luc—that’s not a ship,” she said. “That’s a relic.”

“Don’t lose faith in old relics, Doctor,” Picard advised. “They may surprise you yet.”

Jurati laughed again, shaking her head as she did so. “Oh man,” she said. “Next you’re going to ask me join the crew, is that it?”

“Yes,” he said, mustering all the authority and confidence in his voice he could.

“Listen,” she said. “There’s a part of me—a big, loud part of me—that wants to tell you no. I get a panic attack just being on a boat.”

“She’s a great deal more steady, I assure you,” Picard insisted.

“Yeah, well,” Jurati said nervously. “Steady or no, that was _before_ you told me the ship you intended to fly through space was over two hundred years old.”

Picard nodded thoughtfully. “I’m offering you the opportunity to explore Maddox’s work. And if we do this right, you may even be able to continue that work.”

“That’s assuming Maddox is even alive,” Jurati said.

Picard’s eyes widened in surprise.

“No, I don’t know something you don’t,” she said. “Just doing what I know how to do best—drawing an informed hypothesis. Jean-Luc, the truth is he left Earth to work on a remote space station and not one person has heard from him in years. Not one scrap or peep. In this day and age, such a complete lack of footprint means one of two things—either you slipped and fell into a wormhole, or you’re dead.” Then, more to herself than anything: “Or, you know, it could be both. One could’ve led to the other.”

“Well, let’s hope he’s not dead, Doctor Jurati,” Picard said. “Maddox is our only lead in figuring out where Dahj’s sister could be.”

Jurati sighed. “I always wanted to continue his work,” she said quietly. 

“And do you think you can meaningfully continue that work while Starfleet lops your research off at the knees?” Picard asked. 

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t.” 

“Then it seems you have an answer,” Picard said, shrugging slightly.

She turned to him. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll come. But there better not be any wormholes.”

“No promises,” Picard said, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He wanted her on the crew. Her experience with positronic networks would be invaluable. The fact she’d agreed would be an enormous boon to their chances of success.

“When do we leave?” she asked.

“The _NX-01_ will be ready in three days. New shields, some weapons. A boost in power. Should be enough to get us there.”

“Should…?”

“Only joking, Dr Jurati,” Picard assured her. He adjusted his shirt, pulling it down slightly. It was an unconscious, agitated gesture. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—I have to go disappoint somebody I’d rather not disappoint.”

Jurati chuckled. “Got to go tell an ensign in the engineering corps they got the captain’s chair all wrong?”

“No, no. I’m sure the chair is perfect,” he said, walking away. He paused, turning around. “Data would’ve liked you.”

Jurati laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were telling me what I’d like to hear.”

“Never,” he said, grinning. “Just calling it like I see it.”


	3. Chapter 3

“You ornery cold coot,” Laris seethed. “You want us to do what?”

Laris’s eyes were alive with anger. The heat they generated was possibly greater than the heat generated by the fire in the sitting room, the flames hissing and crackling, sending plumes of sparks into the throat of the chimney.

Laris took a breath, a harsh, too-quick breath. She spared a glance at her husband, as though expecting him to have the same anger and ferocity in his eyes. But as always, Zhaban was the cooler of the two, his expression thoughtful, contemplative.

“I want you to join me on the _Enterprise_ as my civilian attaches,” Picard repeated again. “I’ll need people around me I can trust.”

Laris made a dismissive, impatient sound, turning away from me. “You’re going up there,” she said. “You’re really doing it.”

“Of course I’m doing it,” Picard said carefully. “Dahj was Data’s daughter. But she wasn’t the only one he had. As long as Dahj’s sister is out there, the Romulans won’t stop until she’s dead. Finding Bruce Maddox is the key to finding her and protecting her—whoever she is.”

Laris grunted. “I can’t believe that woman gave you a ship,” she muttered.

“That woman,” Picard corrected, “knows that finding Bruce Maddox is the right thing to do.”

“The man was a Starfleet asset,” Laris returned. “And that asset went wandering into the woods. Of course she wants him back.” She picked at her hair; it was a nervous, unconscious gesture.

“And do they have a lead?” Zhaban asked Picard.

“Oh, don’t you indulge him,” Laris warned. “They gave him a museum and told him it was a ship. That vessel couldn’t pick up a lead if it was five meters off her bow.”

“Decommisisoned museum,” Picard added. “And her sensors work beautifully. They gave her some shields and some other modern accouterments as well.” 

Laris rolled her eyes. “Is the damn thing even warp capable?”

“It can manage warp five,” Picard offered.

“My ass modern accouterments,” Laris muttered. She whirled on her husband. “Will you wipe that cheeky smirk of your face and help me out here?”

Zhaban nodded, eager to placate his wife. Picard had seen them fight before; it was a somewhat routine display they performed for one another, never getting vicious or mean, but merely agitated with the other. Picard envied them in a way, and their ability to weather conflict, only to come out on the other side more intact than before. They loved one another, and loved one another fiercely. Seeing them was the closest Picard would get to having a domestic life, he figured.

“Jean-Luc,” Zhaban began. “If you’re serious about this mission to Cestus IV—to that space station—you’ll need something better. More durable. A ship needs stamina.”

“She’s over two hundred years old. She _has_ stamina,” Picard retorted. “Not only did Admiral Janeway _not_ have any ships to spare, she didn’t want any active registration numbers involved with the mission. This was the best she could do.” Then, thinking it would help: “It was a favor to me personally.”

Laris shook her head, unconvinced. “She did that so she could disavow Starfleet of any involvement if things go to shite,” she said. Then, in a poor rendition of Janeway’s accent: “Oh, we have no idea why the _Enterprise_ got blown up. We tasked Picard with taking it to a museum—he’s always kicking around in that chateau of his, we thought it would be good for him, the poor bugger—and he responded to a distress call, things went south, and all aboard were lost. It’s a terrible tragedy. We’ll miss that bald bastard.”

“Laris,” Zhaban said, traces of tension in his own voice. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

Picard sighed. He held up his hands in mock defeat. “Oh, well. I suppose it was worth a try. I felt your pastexperience in the Tal Shiar would make you both invaluable assets on the crew. My supposition was the two of you would see things I cannot,” he said. “The bottom line is that I’m going. Starfleet approved the mission. Save for my first officer and a helmsman, most of the crew is assembled. If you’d both rather kick around this chateau of mine, obsessing over the stink bugs on the pinos, than that is your prerogative.”

Just then, Number One came bounding into the room, beelining for Picard. He buried his snout in Picard’s hand and then gave it a lick.

“Of course you can come, Number One,” Picard said cheerfully. “The _NX-01_ wouldn’t be space worthy until she had a dog onboard.”

“You’re bringing Number One,” Laris said said, dumbfounded.

“Of course,” Picard replied. “We’ll likely encounter murderous, hawkish Romulans. Having a little assassin onboard will prove valuable.”

“Oh, that’s quite lovely,” Laris said. “Quite lovely.” She glared at him. “The point is moot. Even—even if I said _yes,_ I doubt Starfleet will let former Tal Shiar operatives aboard a ship of their’s.”

Picard held her gaze. “You made your separation from the Tal Shiar quite clear years ago. And if any of them have forgotten where your loyalties lay, they only need to look at what you both did on Yuyat Beta. And the lives you saved there.”

“That might not be enough, Jean-Luc,” Laris said.

He looked at her, his expression softening. “There was a time—long ago—when they reinstated a Captain who’d committed war crimes against his own people. If they granted that man grace, I believe they will grant you both the same grace—especially when I deem it vital for the success of a mission.”

“That man acted against his will,” she said. “And had the trust of the Federation behind him. A trust he earned. He could’ve committed a dozen Wolf 359’s and they would’ve been understanding.”

Picard gave a dismissive grunt. He remembered, how—years ago—Commander Sisko had blamed him for the death of his wife while Picard had been assimilated and turned into Locutus. Even now, over thirty years later, he could recall willing the Borg Cube to slice into the _Saratoga’s_ hull, carving off sections of her like a butcher breaking down a wild animal. Sisko had never forgiven him for the onslaught he’d committed against that ship. As Locutus, he’d ordered the murder of not just his wife, but countless others.

And Sisko wasn’t wrong to blame him.

Picard took a seat. Number One, sensing an advantage, leapt onto his lap, his tongue dangling from his mouth. “I’ll be reporting to Admiral Janeway,” Picard said. “She’ll understand.”

“Why the hell does that make a difference?” Laris demanded.

“Because Janeway knows what it’s like to appoint former terrorists to her crew,” he said, stroking Number One’s scalp. “ _Voyager_ wouldn’t have weathered the Delta Quadrant if not for the Maquis they counted among them.”

“He makes a good point, dear,” Zhaban indicated.

“I know bloody well the point he makes,” she said, taking a seat across from him. Only Zhaban was left standing; he didn’t seem to mind. “I know how important Data was to you,” she continued. “He was family. Which makes that girl—and any other siblings she may have—family as well.”

“I have a responsibility to her sister,” Picard said. “I have a duty to protect her.”

“You Starfleet officers and your sense of duty,” Laris said, sparing a long, probing glance at her husband. “But I understand. I would do anything for my family as well.”

“So you’ll come then?” Picard asked. “Both of you?”

Their eyes lingered on one another. Some invisible, unknown communication took place between them; it was the silent language only spouses could speak.

“Of course we’ll come,” she said, after a moment. “Who else is going to pour your bloody wine for you?”


	4. Chapter 4

Ta’lore de la Cruz was still drunk when he woke up. It was a tired, mostly hungover kind of drunk, the sort that had slow-dripped liquid cement into his skull while he slept, rendering him tranquilized, too dazed. As his eyes crept open, he immediately regretted it; his room was too bright, and his mouth, dry from a night without water, felt coated in sandpaper.

Turning towards the edge of his bed, Ta’lore sent his hand lurching towards his nightstand. He was hoping that in his drunkeness the night before, he’d left himself a glass of water. Something, anything, to end the drought searing his mouth and throat.

There was a thump, a crash. A vague, wet sound.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Ta’lore _had_ left himself a glass of water. Unfortunately, he’d just knocked that glass to the floor of his room.

He sighed. The possibility of gulping down water now felt remote, implausible. He’d have to pull back his covers and pick up the glass on the floor. He’d have to leave his room and pad into the kitchen, where he could properly refill it. He’d have to wearily return to his room. Each task felt strenuous and a little too ambitious, requiring effort he didn’t have.

Ta’lore needed to stop drinking on Friday nights. He blamed it on Barot, a fellow half-Klingon like himself who worked with him at Starfleet Academy, the two of them training wave after wave of bright-eyed, uncertain cadets. Over the past several months, they’d developed an informal routine consisting of heading out to San Francisco when the work week ended, where both of them would _only have a few drinks_ , a broad, vague term that would always metastasize into something more, eventually forming a hangover that would pummel recklessly into them the next morning.

And Ta’lore was being pummeled. He felt it in his head, his gut. Behind his eyes.

There were even parts of last night he couldn’t quite remember. At some point, Barot had begun talking to some smiling blonde and they’d separated. There was, Ta’lore recalled, the flash of lights cascading over a dance floor, and with it, a bass that throbbed and throbbed; there was the feeling of one warm body among an ocean of warm bodies pressing against his own, and soon after, the sensation of a hot mouth breathing against his neck; there was the pleasure of a hand traveling down his lower back, comfortably resting at the base of his spine; there was the pressure of a pelvis thrusting into his, and with it, the presence of something hard and stiff prodding at him. He remembered how, in that confident, uninhibited way that happened in gay clubs, the sensation of a hand that was not his grabbing and squeezing the bulge swelling and bursting in his pants.

He remembered thinking how, when they got back to his place, Ta’lore would show him the ferocity that had made his species famous. That had made them legendary. He would fuck this man, he knew. He would fuck him like it was bloodsport. He would fuck him like a Klingon.

Ta’lore turned over once more in his bed, stretching out, reaching for the man he’d slept with. If he couldn’t have the cool relief of water, the warm comfort of a body curled next to him would suffice. As he reached out towards the lump on the other side of the bed, he tried recalling the shape of the face, the contours it held. Ta’lore could recall the heat the man left in his mouth, but not what the man looked like.

His hand closed over nothing except empty mattress. Bewildered, he pulled back the blankets.

There was nobody there. That side of the bed was empty.

And then he remembered—Ta’lore had not fucked him like a Klingon. In fact, he hadn’t fucked him at all. Yes, they’d gotten back to his Russian Hill apartment, Ta’lore stumbling into the living room with confident, blundering enthusiasm; they’d retreated back to his room; they’d even begun undressing one another as they collapsed into his bed, their lips finding the other’s.

And then Ta’lore had fallen asleep.

So much for the bloodsport. Ta’lore groaned, throwing one of his pillows across the room. It had been tucked underneath his comforter, and thinking it was the outline of a man’s body, he’d hugged the pillow close.

It was the only revenge Ta’lore was capable of mustering.

He wrapped his blankets around his body, muttered to himself in Klingon as he did; he was cursing his own shortcomings, his failings—being too tired for sex was a deficiency no Klingon should have. Dishonor didn’t even begin to cover it.

A sound from the kitchen caught his attention. Ta’lore tensed, wondering what the source was; he lived alone.

Ta’lore heard it again. It was an unspecified _someone’s working in the kitchen_ sort of sound. He heard his faucet running briefly, the report of dishes brushing up against one another.

Then, footsteps. Coming towards his bedroom.

Ta’lore kept a Klingon blade tucked underneath his mattress, just beneath his side of the bed. His hand was wedged into the mattress, his fingers just beginning to touch the handle, right as the door opened.

The eyes. That was the first thing Ta’lore noticed about the man’s eyes. They were dark and gray, and stained a faint purple; his eyes were the color of an approaching thunderhead bruised with lightning. He berated himself for forgetting them. They were beautiful, in that way all dark, dangerous things were beautiful.

He had an angular jaw and chin, peppered with the suggestion of a beard. Full lips that were pulled into a wry, impish smirk. Bleach blonde hair that was striking and bright against his dark face. He was bare to the waist, and as Ta’lore’s eyes crept over him, he marveled at the man’s thick, well-muscled bulk. He didn’t have a model’s body, but rather, the body of someone who could punch a whole through solid tritanium.

Ah, yes, Ta’lore thought to himself. That part he remembered.

The man’s smirk widened. “Were you about to pull a knife on me?”

“No,” Ta’lore said, withdrawing his hand from his mattress. “Of course not.”

“Klingon in more ways than one,” the man said, his voice dripping with hidden meaning.

“Half Klingon,” Ta’lore corrected.

“Half,” the man said. The smirk faltered somewhat. “Not that you’re keeping track.”

At once, Ta’lore wished he could remember the previous night, that he could pour over the conversations they’d had. If there’d been much talking to begin with.

“I smell breakfast,” Ta’lore said, steering the conversation to less complicated waters.

“You smell right.”

Ta’lore gazed through the open door behind the man. Past him was the hallway, where his father’s bat’leth hung gleaming on the wall. And then, at the other end of the hallway, was the kitchen, where he could see two steaming plates on his kitchen table.

“Bacon?” Ta’lore asked.

“Sorry, I saw it in the fridge and had to,” he said, saying it as though it were mandatory, as though all choice were removed. “Starfleet and their replicated bacon. I needed the real thing.” 

“Starfleet?” Ta’lore asked slowly.

The man strode over to the other side of his bed—the side that mostly remained empty, save for the occasional intrepid Friday night—and picked up his jeans from the floor. He slid one leg in, then the other. “Yeah. I’m a pilot,” he said. Then, a little stiffly: “We talked about this last night.”

Ta’lore tried to conceal the wince he felt forming on his face. “Sorry,” he said.

That dangerous smirk returned. “Do you even know my name?”

Ta’lore looked uneasy, as though he’d digested something particularly difficult. “Er—no. I’m sorry. I’m assuming you told that to me too?” he asked, his cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment.

“Indeed I did,” he said, drifting away from the bed. He’d remained shirtless, and as he migrated across his room, Ta’lore found himself admiring the carefully chiseled musculature of his back.

“So,” Ta’lore said. “You gonna tell me your name?”

The man went to the door, pausing. “Get out of bed and eat the bacon I made for you and I’ll think about it,” he said.

He didn’t have to tell Ta’lore twice. He pulled the covers back and hopped out of bed, ignoring the thudding of his headache. He followed the man—who felt both familiar and like a stranger to Ta’lore—and joined him at the kitchen table. The man sat in the seat Ta’lore typically occupied, so he took the next best seat—the one closest to him.

Ta’lore gazed down at his plate. Three slices of bacon rested atop a bed of sunny side up eggs. A bit of the yoke was leaking, trailing a yellow path to two thick slices of sourdough toast. The whole thing smelled like it could, with a few bites, cure his hangover.

“Dig in,” the man said.

Ta’lore dug in. They ate in satisfied silence for a minute, and as Ta’lore soaked up the yoke with his toast, he felt a portion of himself become renewed, as though he were regrowing a part of his body he hadn’t realized he’d lost.

“So you’re a pilot,” Ta’lore said, his mouth full. “What do you fly?”

“Transports mostly,” he said, eating a forkful of eggs. “But these days I’m local.”

“Where were you stationed before?”

He paused, deliberating.

“I asked you this last night, didn’t I,” Ta’lore said.

He shook his head. “No. Actually you didn’t,” he said. “When I told you I was a pilot, you just sort of laughed and told me it was hot.”

Ta’lore shrugged. “Well. It is hot.”

“You got a thing for pilots?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” Ta’lore said easily, “in my experience—they know how to work a stick.”

His companion almost choked on the eggs in his throat. He reached for a glass of mango juice, taking an enthusiastic, eager gulp.

“Sorry,” Ta’lore said.

“I mean, you’re not wrong,” he said, chuckling. “But to answer your question—I was stationed in the Beta Quadrant.”

A heavy silence filled the air between them. Ta’lore did the math. If this man flew transports in the Beta Quadrant for the Federation, it meant one thing—he was apart of the Romulan Rescue Armada. Ta’lore himself hadn’t been stationed on a vessel in the Armada, but rather, he’d been the Ops officer on a _Sovereign_ class ship patrolling the outer edges of the Alpha Quadrant. The worst part about those months was combating the feeling of uselessness; he knew his skills could’ve been better served near the frontlines of the relocation effort.

Ta’lore gazed at the man sitting across from him with a newly minted appreciation. “What kind of ship?” he asked.

“The _Musa Dagh,”_ he said. “A _Wallenberg_ -class transport. I was eighteen. They needed all the pilots they could get—so they got me.”

“That’s some heavy shit,” Ta’lore said. “How long?”

“Twenty months, give or a take.”

“Damn,” Ta’lore replied. “You still think about it?”

He nodded. “Every day.”

Ta’lore paused. “Me too.”

The man’s face became hopeful. “Were you stationed in the armada?”

“No,” Ta’lore said. “And not a day goes by I don’t regret it. Not being there was—dishonorable.”

“No,” he said. “Dishonorable was what we did _after_.”

Their gazes met. Then held. Electricity was exchanged between them, a bright, vivid current that said more than words could. There was longing there, a sort of crackling lust, but there were other things, Ta’lore felt, sad, unnameable things—there was the regret they couldn’t do more, that they’d left too many Romulans to die as their world was crushed beneath the weight of a supernova; there was the shame that followed; there was anguish, for each life that was lost should’ve been shielded by the Federation, protected, guarded. Saved.

“What’s your name?” Ta’lore asked.

“You asked me that last night.”

“And I’m asking again,” he said quietly. Then, even softer: “I’m asking again.”

The man exhaled. In that moment, he looked older than the thirtysomething years he likely was, prematurely aged. “Sam,” he said. “Sam Rikon.”

“Commander?”

Sam chuckled, but it was a hollow, empty sound. “Lieutenant Commander.”

Ta’lore made a sound of disapproval. “After what you did—they should’ve made you a Captain.”

Sam drained the last of his glass. “The Federation didn’t exactly reward folks who were apart of the Relocation,” he said, shades of bitterness in his voice. “And you?”

“Commander,” Ta’lore said. “I ended up at Starfleet Academy too.”

“Well then,” Sam said, leaning forward. “It looks like you out rank me.”

The electricity passed between them again. But gone was the sadness, and the pain, and the guilt; the silhouette of Romulus, for a few seconds at least, receded. The only thing remaining was the longing. The need.

“I think I do outrank you,” Ta’lore replied.

Sam indicated the bedroom they’d come out of. He bit his lower lip. “And you can probably order me to do things.”

“Well, LC,” Ta’lore replied. “I’m glad you recognize the chain of command around here. Because if you don’t do what I say,” he said, leaning forward to meet him, “I might have to demote you.”

They were inches away from one another. Ta’lore, his energy recovered, wanted to taste the salt on Sam’s lips, on his skin. He wanted to pull him back into his room and bask in the heat he generated. The swim among it like embers in a fire.

But he never got the chance. Neither of them did.

Before they could, the doorbell rang, and unbeknownst to either of them—Jean-Luc Picard lay waiting on the other side.


	5. Chapter 5

For several long seconds, neither one of them moved. They merely gazed at one another, briefly paralyzed by the need they felt for one another. Ta’lore knew he should stand up from the kitchen table and go the door, but he also wanted to remain there and gaze into the currents of purple swimming in Sam’s eyes. He wanted to run his hands through the bright blonde of his hair. He wanted to feel the pulse of him while his lips touched his neck.

He wanted to fuck him like a Klingon.

But once again, Ta’lore was being thwarted.

The doorbell chimed a second time, the sound seemingly more urgent than before. “You should probably get that,” Sam advised, his voice a whisper.

“Yeah, probably.”

Ta’lore knew if he kissed Sam, it would not end. The kiss would spread like wildfire, swelling out of control until there was nothing but heat, and the lazy, wandering embers of the things they were.

Ta’lore stood up. It took everything inside him to extract himself from the gravitational pull Sam exerted on him. He wanted, more than anything in that moment, to remain in his orbit.

He went to the door. He felt Sam’s eyes on him, trailing him as he migrated across his compact yet tidy living room. He activated the panel that control the door mechanism; he wanted to know who was bothering him so early on a Saturday morning.

Well, not early, he supposed. It was almost noon.

The feed showing the view on the other side of the door blinked to life. An older man stood there, radiating all the patience in the world. He had kind, warm eyes. The sort of eyes that saw everything. He recognized the man immediately. Jean-Luc Picard.

“Oh, fuck,” Ta’lore said.

He heard Sam stand up in the kitchen. “What is it?”

“Oh, probably nothing good,” Ta’lore said.

Sam took a step forward, alarmed. “Are—are you in trouble?”

“No, no,” Ta’lore said. “Not unless retired Admirals over the age of ninety are considered trouble.”

He heard Sam’s footsteps behind him as he came up to the door. When he saw who it was, his eyes widened in surprise. Then he hurried away from the door, retreating back into Ta’lore’s room.

“Sam, he’s an old man, no need to run off like a—”

“I’m not running away!” he called out from his room. Seconds later he reappeared with a pair of pants in his hands. Ta’lore’s pants. “If you’re gonna be greeting retired Admirals, then maybe you should be wearing pants,” he said, whispering.

“Why are you whispering? He can’t hear us through the door,” Ta’lore said, jamming a leg into the pants.

“I don’t know what Picard can and can’t do,” Sam said. “Should I even be here?” he asked. The confidence and surety Ta’lore had seen earlier was gone; in its place was something more giddy and childlike. Ta’lore thought it cute.

“Can’t think of why you shouldn’t be here,” Ta’lore said. “He didn’t even let me know he was coming,” he said, pausing. He furrowed his brow in thought.“I can’t tell if that’s out of character or exactly the sort of thing he’d do.”

“Wait,” Sam said. “Do you know him?”

“Yeah,” Ta’lore said. “Remember that _Sovereign_ -class ship I was talking about? My uncle took over the captain’s seat when Picard left the _Enterprise_ to head up the Romulan relocation on the _Verity_. I served during the Relocation.”

Sam blinked in surprise. “Your uncle is Ambassador Worf?”

“Don’t remind me,” Ta’lore said. The door chimed once more. Not wanting to keep Picard waiting any longer, he opened up the door.

It was amazing how little the man had aged. Sure, a smattering of brown spots had colonized the sides of his head, and he seemed to have a few more wrinkles than before, but as he stood there, Ta’lore thought him surprisingly youthful.

No. Not youthful. He _was_ old, but Picard was also vigorous, sprightly.

“Ta’lore,” he said, his voice not quite booming. He broke out into a grin. “It’s been too long.”

“About three years too long, Jean-Luc,” Ta’lore said, offering his hand. Picard shook it; his grip was as strong and sturdy as ever. “This is Sam,” he said, releasing his hand and indicating the eager man standing next to him.

“Ah,” Picard said, as though he’d been waiting months and months to meet Sam. “A pleasure to meet you. I always wondered if Ta’lore had it in him to settle into the domestic life.”

Sam barked out a laugh, avoiding direct eye contact with Ta’lore as he did. “Not sure if he _does_ have it in him,” he said. “But don’t tell Ta’lore that.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Picard agreed.

They invited him in. For a moment, it did seem as though Ta’lore and Sam had settled into some version of a domestic life. Neither one of them corrected Picard, and with their silence began a sort of performance. Sam pretended to be comfortable and familiar around Ta’lore, and seeing it, Ta’lore played along, calling him _babe_ and _hon_ and a few relevant Klingon nicknames that, if translated into English, would be more at home in a butcher shop.

Sam guided Picard to the couch, offering him tea. The Admiral selected a caffeine-free Earl Gray. Ta’lore chooseboiled tulian root.

As Sam busied himself in the kitchen, Ta’lore settled across from Picard. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m going to go the way of absolute candor and get straight to the point,” Picard said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Picard leaned forward eagerly. “I’m being reenlisted in Starfleet for one mission. I’m commanding a small recon vessel and taking her to Cestus IV, where we’ve been ordered to dig up anything we can concerning the last known location of Bruce Maddox.”

Ta’lore paused. The name was familiar. “Maddox,” he said slowly. “That the Synth engineer who disappeared? Worked for Daystrom?”

“The very same,” Picard said.

“Okay,” Ta’lore said. “And what do you need from me?”

“I want you to be my first officer,” Picard told him.

Ta’lore inherited his laughter from his Klingon side. It was loud, booming—a reckless sound. Then, seeing that Picard wasn’t laughing along—he had a straight face, actually, almost stern—Ta’lore stopped. “Wait,” he said. “You’re serious.”

“Very,” he said.

Sam came back with his their drinks, setting it on the coffee table between them. He winked at Ta’lore. “Made it just the way you like it,” he said.

Picard picked up his cup, sipping it. “This is lovely, Sam.”

“Didn’t take much,” Sam said. “Just pulled it out of the replicator. The tuvian root was harder,” he said.

“I have a particular fondness for the replicated variety,” Picard said. “There’s a certain comfort in knowing the tea will be the same wherever you go—whether it’s on a starship in the Beta Quadrant or in an apartment in San Francisco.”

“You ain’t wrong,” Sam said. “For me it was chai. Some days that cup was the only thing keeping me sane in the Beta Quadrant.”

Picard’s eyes lit up. “You were there?”

“Yeah,” he said. “My first piloting assignment. The _Musa Dugh.”_

“A Wallenberg,” Picard said, nodding. “Sturdy, well-made ships.”

“That they were,” Sam said. “Can’t say the same for the pilots. I was just a kid. They’d take any damn folks back then.”

Picard set down his cup of tea. His expression became solemn. In the span of seconds, he looked terribly weary, personifying every month of his ninety-two years. “We needed the people. Especially back then. We never quite got them—did we?”

“No,” Sam said. “I don’t think we did.”

Sam—sensing Picard sought some momentary privacy with Ta’lore— retreated once more to the kitchen and went about piling their plates into the sink.

“I have responsibilities at Starfleet,” Ta’lore said, as if their conversation hadn’t been briefly interrupted by Sam.

“We all do, Commander,” Picard said. “Starfleet is exactly why I’m ending my retirement and going back out there.”

“You miss it,” Ta’lore said, smirking.

“And you don’t?”

Ta’lore shrugged. “There’s something to be said for having your feet on the ground.”

“Perhaps,” Picard said. “But I prefer to have my eyes on the stars.”

For a moment, the only sounds they heard was the running of the sink as Sam scrubbed their dishes clean. He found himself looking out the window, where he could see the last remnants of the morning fog melting away from the Bay.

“My uncle would never let me live it down if I told you no,” he said.

“Worf would only do that if you did something contrary to what you wanted to do,” Picard said. “If you want the job, then it’s yours. But if you don’t—I’ll go seek someone else.”

Ta’lore nodded. “I can’t have you do that, Admiral,” he said, standing up. He extended a hand. “The job’s taken. When do we leave?”

Picard broke out into a wide smile, standing up to meet him. “We leave as soon as I can find a pilot willing to fly the ship.”

“You don’t have to look any further, Admiral,” Sam said, stepping back into the living room. “I think you’ve found you’ve found him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ya'll!
> 
> (I'm on twitter as @bmiller808 if ya'll wanna find me on there)


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